


April Fools

by freckledandspectacled



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Bubble Bath, Duet, Ed Just Gets a Little Provocative at Three Different Points, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Massage, Okay and A Little Angst, Psychopaths In Love, just pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 19:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledandspectacled/pseuds/freckledandspectacled
Summary: It's Edward's birthday, but that doesn't mean much to him. Oswald tries to make it special.





	April Fools

**Author's Note:**

> I spent weeks writing the last couple of lines because of who I am as a person. At least it's still April. No Beta.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Oswald murmurs into Ed’s ear, sitting on the bed beside him and making the mattress dip. Ed hums, blinking up at Oswald blearily. He’s generally the first to rise, but Oswald _never_ wakes him on the days he’s not. He can make out a blurry smile on Oswald’s face and smiles in return. Oswald leans down to kiss him, and Ed bites back a protest about not having brushed his teeth yet. Clearly, Oswald is up to something.

“I brought you breakfast,” Oswald chirps, standing and handing Ed his glasses. Ed accepts them, unfolding the frames and putting them on in order to survey the selection Oswald has brought. It’s a full English breakfast: bacon, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, toast, and sausages. He sits up, arranging himself so he's leaning back against several pillows while Oswald sets the tray of food up over his lap. Ed tries the coffee, and he can tell before he even tastes it that it’s the exact ratio of coffee to milk to sugar that he prefers. Oswald had even spruced up the tray of food with a little vase of flowers, filled with white and purple crocuses that Ed recognizes as having recently bloomed on their lawn. There’s a small bowl of strawberries as well, large and red, probably a last minute consideration on Oswald’s part when he realized that a full English wasn’t exactly what Ed would consider to be the best selection for a balanced breakfast.

“What’s the occasion?” Ed asks, tilting his face up for another peck as Oswald hovers over him. Oswald laughs and kisses him once again before sitting on the bed.

“It’s your birthday, silly goose.” His birthday. Ed hadn’t even realized. He’d never really celebrated the day. Generally, telling people it was his birthday led to laughter and disbelief rather than well wishes. That was the curse of being born on April first, he supposes. While working for the GCPD, he had never possessed the energy required to convince person after person it was actually his birthday; it just made the whole affair even more pathetic than it already was. Better to ignore the day all together. What was the purpose of celebrating, anyways? _Congratulations on making another rotation around the sun, you are now one day closer to your inevitable demise._

“Thank you,” Ed says instead. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat all of this by myself.”

“Who said it was all for you? Just eat what you want, I’m here for the leftovers.” Ed smiles in appreciation and starts in, taking a bite of everything and sipping his coffee in between. Ed thinks over the day’s plan; he has a couple of questions for Oswald he had planned on asking over breakfast.

“Later today, when we’re meeting with Panessa, did you want me to make any insinuations about those photos we dredged up, or did you want to play nice until we’ve got his cousin’s dealings squared away? He’s not going to be very happy about the cuts and I doubt he’ll be difficult, but just in case-”

“Eddie, darling,” Oswald cuts in, “It’s your _birthday_ , I’ve cleared our schedules.”

“Why?” Ed jolts, already mentally rescheduling the rest of the week. “I need to make some calls, this could be an issue. I didn’t ask you to do this, Oswald, it would really be preferable if we just carried on as normal.” He reaches for the tray, moving to get up. Oswald puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the cushions. 

“You will do no such thing, everything has been taken care of. I don’t want you fussing over my affairs today; today is all about you,” he counters, poking Ed’s nose for emphasis.

“It’s not a big deal, Oswald. Just another day,” Ed huffs, settling back into the pillows and trying to put the added stresses this creates out of his mind.

“That is absolutely not true, it’s your _birthday_ , and you are the love of my life. I’m making it a big deal. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve nothing less than the best. Now sit back, shut up, and take my pampering and adoration like a man,” Oswald concludes, picking a strawberry out of the bowl and presenting it to Ed. He holds it a few inches from Ed's mouth. Ed feigns a long-suffering sigh, taking the strawberry between his lips and biting down. It’s as sweet as it looks, possibly sweeter. Ed supposes he can accept the hardship of Oswald spoiling him all day.

“Alright,” Ed says, once the first strawberry is no more. “But tomorrow we go right back to our regularly scheduled scheming.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Oswald says, feeding him another. “Are they any good?”

“Very,” Ed says, licking juice from his lips, “Try one.”

Oswald smirks and leans in, tongue smoothing over where Ed’s had just ventured before sweeping into his mouth. Ed hums and pulls him closer, cursing the tray on his lap. Oswald’s tongue flirts with his own for another moment before he pulls away.

“Delicious,” Oswald concludes, eyes twinkling. Ed blushes and pushes his glasses back up his nose, fingers tangling nervously in the sheets.

“I’m finished,” Ed says, indicating the tray. Oswald stands, pulling it off of him and placing it on the table. “Still hungry, though,” he amends, quirking an eyebrow meaningfully at Oswald. Oswald laughs and returns to the bed, pushing Ed back into the sheets as he kisses him deeply. 

“Get undressed,” Oswald tells him. Ed quickly divests himself of his nightclothes and underwear, planning on excusing himself for a moment to brush his teeth while Oswald finds the lube. Instead, Oswald pulls the massage oil from their drawers.

“Oswald, that’s not-” He shushes Ed, uncapping the bottle and pooling some of the oil into the palm of his hand.

“I know what is it, they’ll be plenty of time for the other thing later. We’re starting your birthday off right. Turn over.” Ed complies, removing his glasses as he does. He’s slightly disappointed, but more excited at the prospect of a massage from Oswald. They’re both quite skilled in the art, though the pair of them are more skilled at working loose the muscles of the legs than anything else. Oswald’s injury receives a great deal of attention from Ed, and he’s learned how to care for it himself over the past few months as well. His excitement is not unfounded, however, as a full body massage from Oswald is still practically _magic_.

Ed relaxes into the sheets as Oswald’s warm hands work the oil into his neck and shoulders. His hands squeeze at Ed’s sides, then he works the heels of them up and down Ed’s back. Ed hears the bones in the small of his back clicking into their rightful place, Oswald keeping the pressure from his hands close to his spine while he pushes down on him. Oswald takes hold of his hips and gently rotates them, then massages his ass. Ed tilts his hips back, tempting Oswald into further exploration of the area between his cheeks, but Oswald merely chuckles and places a hand on the small of his back, softly pressing him down to lay flat against the mattress once more.

“Later,” Oswald promises. Well, it had been worth a shot. Oswald sticks to the plan admirably, working down the back of Ed’s legs. He tells Ed to turn over once he gets down to his ankles, starting at the tops of his thighs again and working down to Ed’s feet. He takes Ed’s foot into his lap once he gets there. Oddly enough, this is Oswald’s true area of expertise. Oswald had told Ed of the many times he’d massaged his mother’s sore and tired feet for her once she’d returned from long days of waitressing. Consequently, he’d developed quite the talent for it. Ed’s still playing catch-up in that area.

This is perhaps Ed’s favourite part of Oswald’s massages, apart from the occasional ‘happy ending’. If only he had been involved with Oswald while working for the GCPD. Those long, brutal hours spent standing, bent over a microscope would have been all the more bearable knowing he had this to come home to. He sighs, letting Oswald rotate his ankle as he finishes up with the other foot. Oswald tickles him, the pads of his fingers brushing against the soft arch underneath. Ed nearly kicks him, giggling and spasming at the sensation. Oswald drops his foot back onto their bed.

“Alright, I’m going to draw you the most luxurious bath you’ve ever had in your life, and then we’re going out. Don’t go anywhere,” Oswald warns.

“I don’t think I can,” Ed says, his limbs like putty after Oswald’s ministrations on him. He feels as though he may actually be turning into a puddle as he sinks into the mattress, body feeling better than it has in some time. Oswald laughs and disappears into the bathroom.

***

To say his bath had been luxurious would have been an understatement. Oswald had thrown in a bath bomb and rose petals, and at least two dozen candles had been lit to illuminate the room. If the aroma alone had been more than enough to send Ed into sensory paradise, than the bath itself had been divine. Oswald had sat with him but not joined him, washing the massage oil from his body. He lathered expensive shampoo into Ed’s hair, washing it and carding his fingers across Ed’s scalp until he was practically purring from the attention. Oswald blew raspberries into the side of Ed’s neck while skating fingers over his sides, teasing him about his susceptibility to tickling even as water sloshed over the lip of the tub from Ed’s squirming.

Ed had hoped Oswald would join him eventually, but the other man seemed to be on a mission. He had remained steadfast, even after Ed took Oswald’s fingers between his lips, mouthing sensually over them and moaning for added effectiveness in a final bid for a different kind of attention. Oswald had simply kissed his brow and told him to find him in the foyer when he was ready, face markedly pinker than it had been before Ed’s attempted seduction.

He waits until the water is lukewarm before getting out, marveling at the way his muscles have lost nearly all the tension he usually carries from the combined efforts of the massage and his soak in the tub. Perhaps this is why Oswald puts so much stock in long baths. Ed considers engaging in this behavior more often in the future, especially if this feeling is the result. He dries and puts on his favourite robe, soft and deep green in color. He brushes his teeth before heading back into the bedroom. Oswald had laid several outfits on the bed for him, a regular occurrence when they were going out. He picks one at random, then decides to indulge a little, selecting a pair of gold and amethyst cufflinks from a box on the nightstand. It’s his birthday, after all, he reasons.

It feels so strange, so foreign, to even entertain the idea that he deserves special treatment on this day, but Oswald seems adamant about it. Frankly, Ed can’t understand it. He’s a little overwhelmed, all things considered, but if this is what Oswald believes to be the proper attitude about birthdays, he probably knows better than Ed. Oswald had enjoyed the benefit of having two loving parents, after all, however briefly he’d known his father. Ed heads back into the bathroom to style his hair, then makes his way downstairs to find Oswald waiting in the foyer. Oswald smiles when he sees him, standing as Ed comes to a halt in front of him.

“Fancy,” Oswald remarks, taking a cufflink between his fingers and moving it to let the light refract inside the stone.

“It’s my birthday,” Ed tries, wondering if this is how it’s supposed to work. Oswald beams at him, no doubt picking up on the change in attitude. He drops his hold on the cufflink and takes Ed’s hands in his.

“Of _course_ it is, you can have anything you like,” he says, looking up into Ed’s eyes. Oswald is vehemently sincere in his beliefs in a way Ed has never known anyone else to be. It has always been very reassuring to base his reactions on someone so decisive. “Come on, there’s a new exhibit at the Gotham Met eagerly awaiting our perusal.”

Oswald drops Ed’s hands and picks up his cane, threading an arm around Ed’s waist as they head to the car.

***

They spend a few hours in the gallery, holding hands as they walk amongst the newest installations, Oswald quizzing Ed on the histories of various paintings and artists. Oswald always insisted Ed was far more interesting than the cards and guides. They play an old game of estimating the worth of various pieces and looking up the results, the origins of which neither can really remember. For some reason Ed may never understand, Oswald triumphs, victorious yet again. He has an eye for worth, Ed supposes. Despite his encyclopedic knowledge of most of the Met’s works, he doesn’t quite have the same knack as Oswald in that regard.

Breaking for lunch comes at Oswald’s insistence when he hears Ed’s stomach growl loudly. They grace a food truck with their presence, entourage following at a close distance. By some miracle of luck, it’s the best grilled cheese sandwich Ed has ever had. He takes note of the name of the food truck for future reference. They take their lunch in a nearby park, chatting about the newest pieces when the conversation comes back to their familiar modern art debate. 

Oswald is not particularly enamored with modern art himself, but he loves teasing Ed over it, and Ed loves entertaining Oswald once he baits Ed into it. The exchange is entirely more amusing for the fact that they both know exactly where the conversation will inevitably go. Ed always insists that any piece he himself- or a determined five year old -could create was not worthy of praise, or even a place in a gallery. By his definition, art required skill, precision. Not sloppy happenstance.

“Well, I think the newest sculptures were a brilliant political commentary,” Oswald starts, clearly suppressing a smile as he initiates the banter between them. Ed frowns exaggeratedly, crumbling the tinfoil from his sandwich into a ball and placing it between them.

“Art,” he deadpans, waving a hand dramatically between them. Oswald laughs, adding his own to the pile.

“I call it… Papier d'étain,” Oswald says. “Everything sounds better in French.”

“You know,” Ed says, leaning in conspiratorially, “maybe _we_ were the real performance art all along.”

“All the world’s a stage,” Oswald suggests, bumping Ed’s shoulder. He stands, grabbing his cane and holding his arm out for Ed. Ed collects their trash, and their modern art (though the difference is negligible to him) before taking his arm, the pair of them heading back out of the park. Ed tosses their refuse, and they pile into the car yet again.

“What’s next on the agenda?” he asks. Oswald smiles.

“We’re going home.”

***

The drive back mostly involves Ed trying to trick Oswald into giving up the rest of his plans for the day, but Oswald’s lips are firmly sealed. Eventually Ed settles into his shoulder, allowing Oswald to muss his hair carding fingers through it. This behavior would suggest that they are not going out again anytime soon, though the deduction does little to enlighten Ed as to his partner’s plans. They arrive home before long and head inside, Oswald keeping a hand on the small of Ed’s back while they walk together. He catches Ed’s elbow when they’re halfway through the foyer, stopping him. Ed turns to face him, quirking his brow.

“What is it, Ozzie?”

“I have keys but no locks and feet but no socks, what am I?” Oswald says, hesitant on the delivery. Ed’s heard the riddle before, but that’s not of any importance. The fact that Oswald’s is asking him a riddle at all is enough cause to celebrate.

“A piano!” Ed answers. Hundreds of possibilities as to the relevance of a piano cross his mind, but Oswald speaks before he can even begin inundating him with questions.

“I want to show you something,” Oswald says, taking his hand and leading him into the parlour. Ed gasps when he sees the new addition to the room. It’s a grand piano, the make of which Ed can’t name. Regardless of its origin, it’s beautiful. The wood is a rich, dark color, almost purple in hue. He’s not an expert, having never entertained the idea of one day owning a grand piano, but Ed knows one thing for certain: it must have been outrageously expensive.

“Is this for me?” Ed says, disbelief evident in his voice.

“Yes, though I’ll admit it’s a little self-indulgent on my part, I do love to hear you play,” Oswald sighs, stroking a hand over Ed’s back in a soothing gesture. “Do you like it?”

“Oswald,” Ed begins, putting his hand over his mouth as he’s overcome with emotion. He’s a self-taught pianist. He can’t even call himself a pianist by his standards, not really. It’s been a hobby, a bit of fun to to attempt to teach himself. Music was another language, the combination of sheet music and keys like an intricate puzzle one could only unlock through precision, quick reading comprehension, and good hand-eye coordination. Or memorization, once you got the hang of it. It had been a rewarding and entertaining challenge, but this instrument was beyond him, beyond the esteem he held for his playing abilities.

“Oswald, I can’t- I can’t accept this,” he says, lowering his hand.

“What are you talking about? I’m giving this to you. I want you to have it, Ed. It’s yours.” He can’t help it, a sob escapes the tight press of his lips. This is too big for him. Oswald pulls Ed into his arms immediately, rubbing his hands over Ed’s back.

“Oh, Eddie, it’s too much, isn’t it? I’m sorry, shh, please don’t be upset,” Oswald says, crushing Ed against his chest.

“I don’t deserve it,” Ed says. He hasn’t received many gifts in his life, and this was so far from his current schema as to be, in this moment, incomprehensible. Ed has never been required to conceptualize something of this value being given to _him_ , the idea so far-fetched as to never have been worth the attempt. Even as he peers over Oswald’s shoulder at it, its existence seems impossible. It’s too beautiful, it shouldn’t belong to him, it _can’t_. An instrument this incredible should belong to someone who can actually play it the way it deserves to be played, someone who isn't him. _Someone who isn’t worthless_ , a familiar voice hisses from the recesses of his psyche. He finds himself reaching out a hand behind Oswald’s back and shaking it, as though he can physically bat the errant thought away.

“You do, Ed. You do. I wish you could see that. I love you so much, you mean the world to me,” Oswald says. He pulls back, putting a hand on Ed’s face. “I don’t expect you to believe me right now, but I truly believe you deserve more than this. I want to give you everything you desire, a piano feels like a party favour in comparison. I didn’t realize it might still be… too much for you.”

Ed feels like an idiot, he feels the full weight of the impoverished childhood he tries so hard to pretend he never had. Oswald had been poor for most of his life as well, but he’d always had a taste for fine things. He didn’t balk at prices the way Ed still found himself wont to do, even knowing that he had the incredible might of Oswald’s capital at his disposal. Of course a gift of this magnitude to Ed seemed paltry to Oswald. This knowledge makes acceptance of it easier, the knowledge that Oswald hadn’t thought much of this exchange. The idea of anyone thinking Ed was worth a gift this precious was ridiculous to entertain if he went by his own standards. No, it is far easier to understand if he takes into consideration that Oswald had underestimated its significance, its value, in comparison to what Ed normally expected (which was absolutely nothing).

“No, it’s fine. It’s lovely, Ozzie. I can’t believe this.” Oswald pulls him into another hug, holding him tightly. 

“You deserve it,” he whispers, “and so much more. I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it, I swear to you.” Ed’s throat tightens once more, and he presses his mouth into Oswald’s shoulder to stifle the whine he feels building.

“Thank you,” he manages, leaning into Oswald.

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday, my love.” Ed allows himself to be held a few moments longer before untangling himself. He heads for the piano without looking at Oswald.

“Let me play you something,” he says, needing to provide a service of some sort that will make this exchange more balanced and worthwhile, for his own sake moreso than Oswald’s. Oswald had said he liked Ed’s playing earlier, hadn’t he? That his clumsy attempts were something Oswald enjoyed. Ed’s hands are shaking, still overcome with emotion at Oswald’s gesture. A gesture his brain is still hard at work attempting to internalize and adapt to fit his previous heuristics. His fingers slip over the first few chords, his anxiety heightening. Oswald expected better than this; he had an ear for music and Ed was seriously underperforming. He hears Oswald coming up behind him, then his hands are covering Ed’s own, stilling them. 

“It’s alright, I don’t need you to indulge me right this minute. I’ll fix us a drink,” Oswald decides. He flees the room. Ed’s certainly made a mess of things, he ascertains. Why couldn’t he just accept kindness for what it was? He’d nearly cried over someone giving him a thoughtful gift, how utterly pathetic. Ed catches his reflection in the piano and averts his gaze. There's a part of him that demandes love, respect, admiration, _attention_ , and will accept nothing less. It assures him that this gift was well earned, that he deserves it, that he deserves even more. There's only the slight hiccup of a lifetime of abuse which prevents him from being able to accept this as the truth. No matter how much he builds himself up in an attempt to combat those who have tried to convince him he’s nothing, the niggling doubt that they were correct about him is always _right there_. Not only that, but it’s quite possible that he’s become accustomed to using more… nefarious means to garner that desired attention from others, making it quite difficult to accept genuine love, freely given, at face value.

He takes a deep breath, letting his fingers play over the keys and focusing on that alone. Ed goes through one of the earliest pieces he’d learned: Tchaikovsky's _Sleeping Beauty_. He allows himself actually hear the music he’s producing, rather than focusing his efforts on perfection like he normally does. The way the piano resonates is like nothing he’s ever experienced; it feels alive beneath his fingers. He finishes the composition, letting the last notes drag out a little longer than necessary in satisfaction. Clapping starts up behind him, and he turns to see Oswald. He’s left two Bloody Marys on the table, and is smiling brightly at Ed.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, “I’ll never grow tired of watching you play.” Ed feels heat come to his face, and he bangs out a few warm-ups until he feels the redness go down before daring to get up and approach Oswald for his drink. He leans down, kissing Oswald gently before taking up the glass and sipping from it. Oswald has a gentle smile playing across his lips still.

“So you like it?” he says, taking hold of Ed’s free hand and running his thumb over the knuckles.

“Very much,” Ed says, his voice soft, and then, “I love you.” Oswald puts a hand on the nape of his neck, pulling him down into another kiss.

“I love you so much,” Oswald says, stroking his hand from Ed’s shoulder down his arm and taking his drink from him. He deposits it back on the table. “Do you feel like playing some more?”

“I could be persuaded,” Ed says, trying to inject a little humor back into his voice. He’d reacted so melodramatically earlier, he’s embarrassed now. “What would you say to a duet?”

“I’d be delighted,” Oswald says. They play a few pieces together, Oswald acting as Ed’s left hand for the arrangements he knows. Ed begins to feel more at ease with the extravagant gift, deciding to take to heart what Oswald had mentioned earlier about this piano being a bit self-indulgent on his part as well. It makes him feel much better about the idea that this beautifully crafted instrument is _his_ birthday gift. Oswald sneaks a hand around his waist and pulls them flush as they play, their sides pressed together. He feels Oswald ribs move as he laughs beside him, Ed’s silly, over-the-top singing leaving him in stitches. By the time Ed checks his watch, he starts at how much time has passed since they began. 

“Did you have anything else planned before dinner?” Ed inquires, smoothing his hands over the keys more naturally as he seamlessly blends a progression from one composition into an entirely separate one, testing his dexterity. 

“No, I was optimistic about your level of enthusiasm,” Oswald says with confidence. The time had passed rather quickly as Ed became familiar with the instrument. Pianos aren’t all that different, not really, but Ed had been adjusting to something else altogether as he played. He’s content, more or less, the initial shock, disbelief, and that age-old insecurity all but gone and replaced by a... _warm_ feeling. This piano wasn’t a trick, it was for him. Oswald cared about him, and he had given this to Ed because he wanted to make him happy, because he thought Ed deserved it. That was enough. He repeats these reassurances like a mantra in his head as he goes through various arpeggios from different arrangements.

“I shouldn’t be so predictable,” he says, wondering at how Oswald always seems so sure about the order of things. Who deserves what, when, and why. He’s decisive in a way Ed admires, certain in his beliefs. If Ed’s the electrical current, Oswald is his lightning rod. Unmoving, drawing Ed to him in a way he can’t escape, his strikes always landing where Oswald predicts despite the age old adage that lightning never strikes the same place twice. Ed is predictable in his motivations, and in a way, his unpredictability.

“Only to anyone who’s paying attention,” Oswald assures him, patting his knee, “I like to think I’ve _earned_ my insight into that wonderful mind of yours.” Ed ducks his head, ceasing his playing and pushing his glasses up when they slip down his nose as a result. He covers Oswald’s hand with his own.

“You have,” he says, kissing him. He pulls away, clearing his throat. “Oswald, this is the most incredible gift I’ve ever received. I can hardly begin to express my gratitude.”

“Your happiness is the only reward I require,” Oswald says, his voice low. “I’ve caused you so much pain-”

“Don’t,” Ed whispers, turning his hand over beneath Oswald’s to link their fingers together. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Oswald says, kissing him again. He looks regretful as he pulls away. “Tonight’s events are black-tie, so we’ll need to change for dinner.” Oswald stands, holding a hand out to Ed, “Shall we?”

Ed takes the proffered hand and stands, letting Oswald lead him to their bedroom. He drops Ed’s hand once they’re inside, disappearing into their walk-in closet. Ed takes a moment to lie on their bed, his thoughts inevitably returning to the piano. He’d frightened Oswald with his initial reaction, he’s sure of it. He should apologize, Oswald was only trying to celebrate his birthday the way he’d been taught, and Ed had nearly derailed the entire day due to his… issues.

Oswald finally exits the room, clothing piled high in his arms. Ed waits until he drops the fabric in a heap in the bed before he rises, pulling Oswald into his arms and hugging him to his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his words only very slightly above a whisper. “I know I don’t have… normal reactions to things that seem very ordinary to you, and if I scared you-”

“You didn’t,” Oswald interrupts, tone brusk. “I’m well aware of the reasons for your hang-ups, sometimes I think I push you too hard. I simply overstepped; it’s not your fault, Eddie.”

Relief courses through him like a wave. Of course Oswald understood, he knew Ed better than anyone. What might come as a shock to some was taken in stride, he never really had to worry what Oswald would think if him. He still did, of course, unable to entirely dismiss that voice inside his head that told him that Oswald would eventually go the same way everyone else had and reject him outright. Yet Oswald had seen the darkest parts of him, been on the receiving end of them, and here he remained.

“I’m so lucky to have you,” Ed says. Today had been quite the emotional rollercoaster, and it wasn’t yet over. Kindness was not something Ed typically trusted, but coming from Oswald he could accept it, given sufficient time. He buries his face in Oswald’s shoulder, glasses pressing painfully into the bridge of his nose. 

“Normally I might debate you as to the veracity of who is truly the lucky one in this relationship, but it’s your birthday and I’m not allowed to disagree with you,” Oswald says, a clear attempt to cut the tension Ed had yet again introduced despite himself.

“We should get dressed,” Ed says, suddenly aware that he’s delaying things with his histrionics yet again. He lets Oswald go, turning his attention to pulling his black tie attire from the pile Oswald had thrown onto their bed. Oswald hugs him from behind, pressing his face into Ed’s back as he holds him.

“We don’t have to go out again if you’d rather stay in, I realize now I made a rather tiresome schedule. We can stay home, relax, cook something together.” Ed appreciates the option, but now that Oswald’s conceptualization of birthdays and what that entails is becoming clear to him, he finds he’s enjoying the extra attention. Clearly Oswald believes that a birthday is meant to spotlight the person in question, catering to their every whim and gifting them with things and experiences they’d enjoy. He’d like to try that, if only because the idea of being able to expect attention for something such as a birthday, which amounts to absolutely nothing significant, rather than demanding recognition for his efforts, is a foreign one.

“I’d like to go out,” he says, “I’m warming up to the idea of being spoiled.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Oswald says, his voice notably brighter. “I’ve been dying to treat you.”

“We’re busy men, Oswald.” He can’t justify this kind of treatment all the time, it wouldn’t be realistic. Nothing would get done if Oswald had it his way. “But I’m willing to make an exception in this case.”

“Well, I’m happy to hear your _birthday_ counts as an exception in your otherwise busy schedule. Honestly, your work ethic astounds me. I never thought I’d get involved with someone who requires _negotiation_ to take their birthday off to enjoy themselves.”

“I like my work,” Ed protests meekly; his attitude does sound rather silly from that perspective.

“Of course, but there’s more fun to be had than running circles around Jim Gordon every day.” Ed hums, turning in Oswald’s arms to kiss him.

“I can think of a couple things…” he purrs. Oswald chuckles, his hands dipping lower on Ed’s back.

“We’re either going out or staying in, we don’t have time for both,” Oswald says. Ed sighs, kissing his nose and turning his attention back to their formal wear. Later, then.

***

They get dinner at an upscale restaurant in the Diamond district, their tuxedos hardly out of place in the establishment. Ed splurges and orders the lobster, pairing it with a Chardonnay. The wait isn’t long, and Ed spends it attempting to extricate information about Oswald’s plans for the evening. He deflects every inquiry, covering Ed’s hand with his own across the table and running his fingers over Ed’s knuckles, staring adoringly at him as he gives nothing away.

Oswald insists he order a piece of cake when they’re finished. Ed acquiesces, mostly just relieved that Oswald hadn’t bought an entire cake to celebrate. It would take him at least two weeks to finish, and more likely than not there would still be waste. Oswald tended to go bigger than was really necessary. He finds room for the cake in his full belly, and Oswald leaves a handsome tip. Then they’re piling back into the car, Ed dozing on Oswald’s shoulder as he takes them to their mystery destination. Normally he’d be more keen on paying attention to their route and narrowing down the possible destinations based on the requirement of black tie dress and elimination of the possible locations they’ve already passed, but resting his head against Oswald’s shoulder is far more tempting.

He starts awake when the car stops, peering out of the widow. They’re at the opera house. But that means…

“Plácido…” Ed whispers. He’s the only performer scheduled for this week. Ed had been eager to attend one of his operas, having learned the he was scheduled to visit Gotham around his birthday some six months ago. Yet their schedules at the time had been exhausting, so caught up in repairing their political and criminal ties. Ed had been unable to seriously consider attending, not knowing whether their work would still be demanding the majority of their waking hours by the time he came to town. Or whether it would even be safe to attend. Those first few months had been very dangerous. The tickets had sold out in a matter of days, besides, and that had been the end of it. Or so he thought... “Oswald, how long have you been planning this?” Oswald smiles. 

“Long enough,” he says cryptically, but that’s answer enough. Ed throws his arms around Oswald’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Ed says. Oswald had faith all those months ago that they would still be alive and together to attend this, that their situation would be secure enough. He hadn’t just bought tickets, he had been placing a bet on their future during a time when neither of them were certain how things would play out, if they would work out at all. Their tentative partnership had only just been rekindled, and there was no guarantee they would even be alive to attend, such was the peril of their predicament at the time. No one had ever placed their faith in him like Oswald, the gesture more meaningful in symbolism than the price of admission. Oswald had invested in _them_ , and here they were, so many months later; so much has changed between them. He can’t imagine waking without Oswald beside him, or going through a day without leaving ridiculously sappy notes on his desk during Oswald’s lunch break. Can’t imagine a life where he’s not the last sight Ed sees at night before sleep overtakes him. They’re more integrated into each other's lives than he could have dreamed possible at the time Oswald had bought these tickets for them. The confidence that Oswald must have possessed in order to believe that they would be able fix things in time to have this was equally unimaginable.

“You must have been exceedingly optimistic when you bought these,” Ed says cautiously, trying not to let his wild overanalysis show on his face or in his tone. He was probably just reading too much into this, making what was very likely a spur-of-the-moment purchase into a revelation.

“I had hope... and I’m very good at getting what I want,” Oswald jokes. That much was certainly true, Ed concedes.

“Can we go in yet?” Ed asks, excitement for the performance overtaking him now that he’s processed the underlying layer of meaning that Oswald’s gift had come with, intended or no.

“Of course.” Oswald says, opening the door and clambering out. Ed follows him, Oswald shutting the car door behind them. Ed links their arms and they continue into the opera house, Oswald flashing their tickets at the box as they make their way inside.

“I’ve never actually attended one of these performances before,” Ed says. He was an aficionado of the arts, but he had never been able to justify the expense of seeing someone as revered as Plácido perform live when he could just as easily listen to him on an LP for far less. Of course, he had once gone to the opera house for another purpose, a little performance of his own. It seems so long ago now.

“I went once with my father,” Oswald says, the nostalgia clear in his voice. “I’d never been somewhere so decadent, so replete with wealth. I’m not sure I truly appreciated it as I should have at the time, but I do now.” An usher greets them and leads them to an elevator, probably noticing Oswald’s limp. Ed supposes it was a little much to be secretly hoping for orchestra seating, but he’s been in the nosebleeds for plays before and he enjoys the birds-eye view. The sound was the same wherever you were. They step out of the elevator and follow the usher to a curtain, which she politely draws back for them, gesturing with a hand towards what lays behind it.

“Enjoy the show, sirs,” she says, waiting for them to step past the curtain. Oswalds holds Ed’s arm more firmly, dragging him along to keep Ed from embarrassing himself as he stands, paralyzed with wonder. He staggers in after Oswald, pulled into motion by the grip on his arm. His mouth is open, he notes, snapping it shut as he takes in their seating arrangements.

“You got us box seats,” he says, opening his mouth again once he find himself capable of communicating.

“Of course, go big or go home,” Oswald says, dropping down into his seat. He pulls something from his pocket, unfolding a pair of golden opera glasses. “Sit down, will you? You’re making me nervous.” Ed sits, remembering himself. He presses against Oswald, no armrests on their seats to prevent him.

“Your father’s?” he asks, nodding at the glasses. They look quite old. It's just a pair of binoculars on a stick, really. Yet they appear elegant despite the inanity, the golden sheen nearly flawless despite their apparent age.

“Yes, I found it among his things. I remembered he had brought these when we went together, and I thought it appropriate to utilize them; it would be a shame if no one ever did again.” He doesn't seem upset to Ed, but Ed puts an arm around him just in case, holding him close.

The performance is nothing short of astounding, Ed feels the music in his chest, the timpani in his bones. He closes his eyes during roaring crescendos and lets them roll over him like a wave. Oswald hold his hand throughout, squeezing intermittently and playing with the fingers of his hand, running his thumb over Ed’s knuckles. It's pleasant.

He gives a standing ovation when Plácido bows, unable to help himself, he's so overcome by the absolute perfection of his performance. Oswald smiles at him but doesn't comment, only standing when it's time to leave. Ed gushes over it on the walk to the car, during the car ride home, and on the way inside. Oswald is an active participant in discussing the nuances of the performance, of course, but he's far more reserved in his observations.

By the time they settle onto the couch in front of the fire, Ed has touched on all the major points he wanted to cover. He quiets at last, settling into Oswald’s side. Kicking his shoes off in a rare display of impropriety, he folds his legs up onto the couch beside him. Grabbing Oswald's hand, Ed pulls it around his shoulders and worms his way underneath Oswald's arm. Ed rests a cheek against his shoulder and sighs, content. He slips an arm around Oswald and nuzzles his nose into his neck, finally settling against him. It had been a very good day. They sit for some time, enjoy the warmth of the fire and one another.

“Thank you,” Ed says eventually, lifting his face from the crook of Oswald's neck. Oswald lifts a hand to Ed's face, tilting his chin up. His mouth descends onto Ed's for a kiss, pulling Ed closer with the arm Ed had pulled around himself earlier, hand splayed against his back. Ed puts a hand on his chest, feeling Oswald's heart race under his palm.

“You're very welcome,” Oswald says, finished with thoroughly ravishing Ed's mouth. Ed is lost for a moment before recalling the start of their kiss, smiling dopily up at Oswald. Oswald appears equally lovestruck, and if Ed wasn't already warm all over from the cuddling and the kiss, he would be due to the way Oswald is looking at him.

“That was much better than birthday punches,” Ed says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. Oswald laughs.

“You got those too? I thought I was the only one,” he says, carding his fingers through Ed’s hair. Oswald caresses the locks with care, gently freeing the soft strands from their gelled prison. Ed welcomes the attention, curling into Oswald’s shoulder again.

“I thought convincing the other kids that it really was my birthday would be a good thing, Hah. I didn’t make that mistake twice,” Ed says, the memory somehow less painful in its retelling than it usually is when he recollects it.

“Nor did I,” Oswald says, “I didn’t tell my mother about it, either. It just would have worried her.” Ed hums, wondering what it might have been like to have had a relationship with his mother in which finding out her son had been harmed would have actually concerned her.

“I got birthday spanks at home as well, though my father took them a little more seriously than I believe is customary. They were always so angry on my birthday; I suppose it was his way of reminding me he wished I had never been born. As if I ever needed that reminder,” Ed says, voice carefully monotone as he gives a little more of his childhood over to Oswald to process. He hasn’t told him everything, of course. Oswald already found it incomprehensible that a parent could hate their own child, particularly when that child had been Ed. He leaks uncomfortable information to him in small doses, letting Oswald process and compartmentalize smaller chunks of data. Telling him the full extent of the abuse in one sitting would be nigh impossible, anyways.

“You deserve so much better,” Oswald says, his voice soft. 

“Ozzie, today was… so much more than I ever expected, ever dreamed,” Ed murmurs, trying not to disturb the gentle atmosphere. Not only was it far beyond his expectations, but he never _really_ thought he would be able to spend this day with someone who genuinely loved him. He had always estimated something of this nature to be firmly out of reach for someone like him. It was a pipe dream, one he had decided at a young age he was better off never even entertaining, it was so ludicrous.

“You’re going to have to dream even bigger next year, this was just a warm-up.” Ed groans dramatically, putting both arms around Oswald and hugging him tightly in contrast to his feigned agony. They rest there in front of the fire, the warmth of its heat and Oswald beside him making Ed drowsy. The events of the day would still have been enjoyable had he experienced them alone, but not to the same degree that they were spent in the company of the man beside him. He feels himself nodding off against Oswald's shoulder, and decides to say his piece before he passes out.

“This is all I need, Oswald,” Ed says, inhaling the unique scent of Oswald’s cologne for reassurance. He turns his face into Oswald’s neck and holds him just a little bit tighter. “Just this.” 

What more could someone ask for?

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if you liked this, because I like giving Ed nice things and Oswald does too <3 Comments make me give him more nice things. Conversely, if you'd like me to torture him next and mix things up a bit, you could tell me that too! :D


End file.
